Even Though the Stars are Blind: My 25th Bithday

Isn't everyone excited to hear about my birthday? And look at the photos?

Okay, look: you aren't.

You want me to talk about something funny that happened at Gristedes or about flannel shirts. I mean, unless you were there, in which case you've had your H+M thong in a wad just eagerly anticipating the steamy photographs of me kissing 19 smokin' hot party girls.¹ Unfortunately, those photographs do not exist.

To make this as painless as possible for everyone involved, I have decided to forego my own witty narration and rather I will narrate this story only with one-liners from the following sources:
-Quotes found on the website to promote Jackass The Movie 2
-Lyrics from Paris Hilton's FANTASTIC New album
-Exercpts from the September 23rd entries in various diaries of Marie Lyn Bernard, circa 1993-2005.

Please see footnotes for specific quote references.

"Uhh..Yeah...That's Hot..Uhh...Yeah...get it started, huh...Yeah..."²

"In the dream I keep having, we are in the law quad, and we are holding each other and he tells me how much he wants to make love to me, and for all the right reasons."³

"I gotta tell you something, Its something that you just might like. Nothing in the world can stop us tonight."⁴

"I can't believe I'm fishing for sharks with Steve-O as my bait!"⁵

"I was lonely and I didn't know it, I was so sad only I didn't show it, You came like the sun breaking through the clouds, and I found what you're what I couldn't live without."⁶

"Then, Dad drove us to the parking structure, why we did not know and neither did he! We ran up and down campus and went to the top of the parking structure and spit on people."⁷

"Do you think I'm sexy? Do you think I really care?"⁸

"What do you say we pile on and get weird?"⁹

"I can make you nice and naughty, be the devil and the angel too."¹⁰

"There's not a whole lot of ways this can go right."¹¹

In this photo we are such rockstars/I look so drunk and dumb (that I had to put it in black and white so not to show the ruddy complexion I have recently acquired, most likely due to the brutal vodka shot forced upon me by this Karen-Walker-wannabe power-les) that even Steve-O, Marie at Age 8 or the legendary paris Hilton couldn't really put the image to words. Needless to say, Stephanie's pose is authentic rockstar. Damn.



¹That's true. I'm not exaggerating.
²"Turn it Up," Paris Hilton 2006
³Marie's Diary, Sep. 23, 2003
⁴Paris Hilton, "Nothing in This World" 2006
⁵Chris Pontius, Jackass the Movie 2
⁶Paris Hilton, "HeartBeat" 2006
⁷Marie's Diary, Sep. 23, 1994
⁸Marie's Diary, Sep. 23, 2005 (I believe I was eloquently quoting the band "K's Choice," who also sang "Not an Addict," which was a good song for that week)
⁹Preston Lacy, Jackass the Movie 2
¹⁰Paris Hilton, "Stars are Blind" 2006
¹¹Johnny Knoxville, Jackass the Movie 2

Sunday Top Ten: Things That Make Me Cry

My publicist¹ still has my camera, which contains the documentation of my 250th birthday party, which WAS A TIME. So...in lieu of the ladies and the kissin,' I'm gonna talk about crying. I know, this seems like a departure from my general commitment to producing physical sensations abbreviated with some of our favorite acronyms (yes, I'm talking about you, LOL. ew.), but crying, or COL, is also funny.

I'm thinking about crying because, like many of us who are a bit fucked up, I live with the constant suspicion that sooner or later, people will discover that I am Awful and that I am a Bad Person, and so I'm always surprised when a birthday comes around and I receive more love than I suspect I deserve. In fact, IT MAKES ME CRY.

I'm not a big fan of sentiment. In fact, I could consider my life thus far to be one huge crusade against Sentiment, much to the dismay of people who have Tried to Have Emotions In Front of Me (I'm better in print. but out loud--that's a lot to handle). So, although I've successfully trained myself to rein in my tears for Sad or Hurtful events, in the process I've become a bit of a lush about crying over Beauty. And Happiness.

Fuck. I just did it again! I just got all teared up from the last scene in the season finale of "South of Nowhere," which I have seen NO LESS THAN ONE ZILLION TIMES already.


TOP TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRY LIKE MRS. SOAMES²

10. Birthday Cards from Good Friends. They get me every time. In fact, I keep 'em. And then when I clean my room, I read them again and I feel like Stuart Smalley. Gets me kinda misty. Rain-forest-y, even.

9. There's this recording from the season finale of the first American Idol of Kelly Clarkson singing "A Moment Like This" right after she won, and she goes "Some people wait a lifetime for a--" and then her voice totally cracks because she's so overwhelmed with emotion from winning American Idol!! and then I totally cry.

8. Seeing people who I care about do amazing things that show how talented they are makes me cry. On the cruise, they had this cool thing where you could watch the shows on the TV in your room, which is pretty much the laziest thing ever but when I didn't make it into the 7pm showing of "Broadway Belters" (you can already see that I am about to talk about crying, musical theater, and a gay family cruise, so basically if I was a guy talking about this, you could safely assume I would never get laid again) so I saw it on video. And when Haviland, dressed like a wedding cake ornament, started singing 'Defying Gravity,' yup--I started crying! And THEN when I was watching the show live--CRIED AGAIN.

7. OK, this is sort of unrelated to happy-tears, but still it's weird. So I read This Blog by Rachel, who just started her junior year at Interlochen (which is pretty much where I'd like to be pretty much forever), and she linked to an essay by her writing teacher, Kate Angus, about crying in New York City, and it was really good. And also it made me cry.

6. When Pete hugged me and thanked me for helping Krista write her essay to get into Yale, I cried. Yeah, like tears almost fell out of my eyes. Just being happy that someone I love has someone lovely who loves her, and that she got into Yale, and that she actually thinks I had something to do with it, when clearly she was more than qualified to get in, regardless of any hungover essay-doctoring I performed, like, moved me.

5. I cried when I got my passport.

4. I cry (present tense, because I can't say for certain that I won't watch it again. And again.) at the season finale of Sex and the City when Magda tells Miranda "You are good. This is good." I also cried in the season finale of Sex and the City when Big asked the girls if he should go get Carrie. I cried in the season finale of Sex and the City when Samantha told Smith-Jerod she cared about him more than she ever has for any other man in her life. However, I did not cry when Big told Carrie she was "the one."

3. Sometimes Stephen Dunn writes such beautiful poems that it makes me cry just to think about it. Like "The time I thought I was in love, and calmly said so, was not so different from the time I was truly in love, and slept poorly and spoke out loud to the wall." BEAUTIFUL! Hey, wanna know what SD says about crying:

I have had such privilege
and have wept
the admittedly small tears
that issue from it, and for years
have expected some terrible random tax
for being born or staying alive.

2. Sometimes (like yesterday) I'll be happy, and something (like the Indigo Girls' new album, 'Despite Our Differences') will come on my ipod, and I will cry. Because of THE BEAUTY. Of, like, IT ALL.

1. So, to Haviland, Janet, Stephanie, Katy, Nicole and Cameron: Thank you for coming out for my birthday. And to My Mother, My Grandparents, My Brother, Natalie, Ingrid, Krista, Scot, Tara, Lainy, Jenni, Maggie, Jeremiah, Malaina, Stephen, Karen, Sherri, Christina, Lauren, J-Nads and Jordan Catalano, thank you for: 1. remembering it was my birthday, 2. taking it upon yourself to wish me a happy birthday.

YOUR LOVE MAKES ME CRY.

Also I just read this fantastic article in Women's Health about why we cry. And how women cry more than men.

¹Ha! I don't have a publicist. But wouldn't it be cool if I did? Yeah it would. Holla! (cameron has my camera. she's my agent, which is close. to publicist. relatively.)
²Mrs. Soames, in Our Town, says: "Don't know why it is, but I always cry. I just like to see young people happy, don't you? Oh, I think it's lovely."

When I Get Older, Losing My Hair, Many Years From Now

So, I am 25 today. Which means I am basically a fossil. So in that spirit I have re-created one of my favorite features from Esquire magazine, 'What I've Learned.' Click on the thumbnail below to get a peek into the wisdom I've acquired over the last quarter century, when I haven't been drunk or wearing MC Hammer pants. Actually, some of this wisdom I did acquire drunk. I'm not exactly William Shatner or Evil Knevil or Lou Reed. But I know a few things, child.

Be All That You Can Be: On Craigslist/The U.S Army

There aren't very many things that would inspire me to post twice in one day, because, as previously discussed, I lead a very busy life of working out, making fun of Stephen, going on holiday with Haviland, reading magazines, being a poorly photographed rockstar, eating fake ice cream, being poor (which my psychiatrist heard as "being a whore" which was a fun conversation in which he suggested I seek employment at Scores, which apparently has pretty dancers who "make a lot of money"), being a fairly well photographed rockstar. And oh yeah, writing. I mean, I wouldn't have posted today at all if Stephen hadn't made out with a Lesbian.

But um, the U.S Army, which as we all know has fired a lot of valuable BUT GAY language specialists recently, is now recruiting on CRAIGSLIST.

This ad isn't exactly "An Army of One" or whatever that thing was about what happens when no one else will join the army but you, but it's pretty damn close, just without photos.

It's called:

***The US Army Needs Your Foreign Language Specialty***

(thanks for "going easy on the all-caps," USA!)

Then it goes on to describe the job in question:

The US Army needs intelligence collection specialists proficient in the following languages:

(then it lists like, every language except English, unfortunately, Stephen)

You must be a US Citizen
High School Grad or higher
17 to 41
Good moral character*
Good health

*Sorry, gays!

Since I love Freedom, SGT. Morris (877-243-7058), I did some matchmaking for you and found this guy on craigslist. See, you guys are both on craigslist, so you're both looking for somethin'! Also he was in M4W, so he's not a Gay.

Future Ambassador of Freedom: "WM Mystic Tantra Energy Healer sks Ongoing Connection"

1. He doesn't speak Arabic, but he speaks something way better than that. He can "HEAR YOUR BODY TALKING TO ME" (his caps) and he can hear bodies talk "in a language of ENCHANTED, BEAUTIFUL DREAM-LIKE VISIONS!" (his caps). Which, I'm pretty sure, is exactly what we need out there to catch Al Queda.
2. He has been tested for "AIDS/STD's" (his grammar). Yup. Good health--check!
3. He would like to "share a whole universe of fascinating adventures." AKA IRAQ!!
4. He has been "forced to give up" his apartment "as of October 1st," which means: 1. he can't "host", 2. he's totally looking for a new place. Um, how about a new place in...IRAQ??!!
5. He has "rare and unique gifts" for "rare, blissful and hallowed mansions of Tantric pleasure." HELLO moral character!

Please comment only if you love Freedom.

But seriously, also, there are gay people that actually want to be in the army, and the fact that this country actually kicks them out of the army is one of many absolutely ridiculous things happening on like, the Earth, right now. Sign this petition to lift the ban on gays and lesbians in the military: Lift The Ban dot org.

She's Got Similar Features, With Longer Hair

First of all, when I'm not at the agency, Stephen Barbara, AKA Rambo, AKA Mediabistro's HOTTIE IN PUBLISHING, misses me like Bobby Brown misses Whitney. Second of all, he's found a new lesbian (a real one, not a faux-lesbian like me who actually dates boys and is constantly starting sentences/long-winded fables with "so my ex-boyfriend...") to swap sexual innuendo with. And to make out with. In fact, it is fellow hottie in publishing. Apparently, like many high-powered politicians, they were brought together in the heat of a powerful moment and started making out like schoolchildren. See that head twist? Yeah you do.

I mean, Stephen and I never made out or anything. But I can say with 95% confidence that Stephen, like most men, had a vested interest in my sexual activities with females, and I discovered quickly that the only way to catch his roaming attention was:

Me: "Stephen do you want any office supplies from Office Depot?"
Stephen: (silence)
Me: "Stephen, didn't you say that you want manuscript boxes?"
Stephen: "Huh?"
Me: "Office Supplies. Making office supply order. Do you need anything?"
Stephen: (silence)
Me: Stephen, last night I fucked two blondes with fake tits with a ten inch dildo, do you need any manuscript boxes?
Stephen: "Uh, no, just a box of Pilot pens--what was that about the dildo?"

Second to "I'd love to make out with your girlfriend, check out that be-donk-a-donk" (his word, not mine), Stephen frequently expressed a burning desire to hear me say: "Guess what I did last weekend? Devilkitty!"

Speaking of ME, it's my birthday on Saturday. For Stephen's birthday, I purchased him a brand-new copy of the perennial classic "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret?" because I thought it would help him understand the YA market as well as those funny feelings he gets "down there" and his overall yearning and anxiety for More. Hopefully he will get me something also spectacular.

Okay, also, could everyone please make Stephen their myspace friend?

Many of you may know that Stephen had a blog, called Rambo the Agent, which he discontinued because he felt he couldn't talk about the stuff he wanted to talk about on it. Right. I think you can see where I'm going with this.

Also I'd like to mention that, despite his J-Lo Glow evident in these photos, Stephen did not spend Labor Day weekend in Bermuda. He goes to Tanfastic in New Jersey.


The photos are from Rob Hogan, via mediabistro. Holla!

Sunday Top Ten: Sunday Morning, Up With the Lark ...

Over the past seven years of my epic post-high-school life I have failed at many things, including but not limited to: three serious relationships, "getting out of debt," reading Crime and Punishment, opening a savings account, visiting Natalie in London, convincing freshdirect to deliver to 460 E. 115th St., "success," making dentist appointments, Being On Time, returning phone calls, etc.

But one thing I have been consistently good at (perhaps, in fact, the only thing):

Going to the Gym.

Yes. Rain or Blizzard, Depression or Happiness, regardless of my energy level (which we all know can be easily adjusted by swallowing various pills and liquids, duh), I have made it to the goddamn gym. People often express awe at this dedication, especially because I don't look like I "need" to go to the gym (I think the American Heart Club or whatever those people are called who don't like margarine would disagree with you there, but whatev) so I'd like to give you some tips on How to Work Out, for if you wish your girlfriend was hot like me. Dontcha? Yeah, dontcha?

TOP TEN RULES OF THE GYM!

Check it.

10. The Rule of Vogue: Yes, Vogue is lovely. It has lots of pretty photographs and long articles with lots of words. Unfortunately, Vogue is not-bendable. The spine on that creature is serious work. If you attempt to place Vogue on the reading deck of your stairmaster, it might tip over. Often; ditto for Elle and Vanity Fair, depending on the month. This photograph, mercilessly snatched from Gawker's Fall Fashion Magazine Weigh-In, pretty much sums up the problem, and also it involves a scale, which is something that the Ladies At the Gym (henceforth referred to as the LATG) like to stand on while they deliver monologues to the room about water retention and their stupid husbands. I don't know why they do this, or what that scale has to do with the gym, but whatev. They should make the LATG's thighs slimmer, and also this magazine, so then we can all be happy and quiet. W is also impossible to read at the gym, which I think is because most people who read that magazine don't eat food, which means they'd get tired at the gym.

9. The Rule of The New Yorker:* Yes, The New Yorker is lovely. It has lots of long articles with lots of words, and if you read it, then you can say things like "So, I read this piece in The New Yorker" which sounds a lot better than my usual intro of "So, I read this piece in ElleGirl.." (RIP), but unfortunately the level of literacy and concentration required to read The New Yorker makes it largely unsuitable for gym-lit. When one is bouncing up and down on a machine like a hyperactive monkey, one will encounter trouble following a sentence from beginning to end, let alone figuring out what it means. And we all know TNY is complicated enough already. This is sometimes possible on the Stairmaster. Which brings me to:

8. Stairmaster Lit: There are a lot of magazines that are a little bit too complicated to be read on the Elliptical Trainer, but are not exactly The New Yorker. This includes Esquire, Bust, Bitch, Poets and Writers, Newsweek and New York Magazine. You can read these on the stairmaster, but not really on the Elliptical.

7.Stationary Bicycle Lit: You can read just about anything on the SB, except for Vogue. I used to do reading for school on the SB. But FYI, the SB is for pansies.

6.The Rule of Natalie Raaber: Natalie Raaber can read coursepacks on an elliptical trainer. How does she do this? Well, she has impeccable posture. Most of her movement is concentrated in the lower half of her body, and she moves her arms gently as if she is a fish gliding through water. In fact, NAR is also capable of highlighting key passages while exercising. You'd really have to see it in person to understand. I have tried to replicate her form, which was nice because back in our college days at Liberty Athletic Club, we'd work out in Ellipticals across from each other at the gym so we could wave/smile and I could observe her at work.

5. Evergreens. The best magazines to read at the gym are (in order of good-ness) Glamour, Women's Health, Marie Claire, Jane, Curve and Allure. Why? Short-ish articles with plenty of variety in form and function, easily cracked spines, nice photos, enough content to last through 30 solid minutes of cardio.

4. Best. Week. Ever. The best time to work out is between the 3rd-10th days of the month, because that's when all the new magazines come out! In fact, it's hard for me to take a day off from the gym during this exciting time. Glamour is the first to come out, FYI.

3. Post-Best.Week.Ever, After the Magic. After you've read the Top Ten and the month presses on, you have to start digging if you don't want to get fat again. The following magazines often enter into rotation during the last two weeks of the publication cycle, depending on specific benefits of content (e.g. an interesting article, an article by Mary Gaitskill or Pam Houston or Jim Harrison, a feature on an L Word or Six Feet Under cast member, 100 outfits under 100 dollars, articles like "Why You're Poor, You Slacker!" or "Best Books Ever, so you can check them off and feel smart," important NYC city guides like Cheap Food You'll Never Actually Eat Cuz All You Eat is Eggo Waffles, photo layouts featuring Jake or Maggie Gyllenhaal): Nylon, Seventeen, Shape, Fitness, GQ, Self, The Advocate, Entertainment Weekly, Maxim, Health and Details.

3. Mag-a-Logs--Not Lit At All, Let Alone Gym-Lit: You know those vaguely sexual stickers in Lucky magazine (Yes! Yes! Yes!) that they stick in there so you can mark all the ways you'd like to waste your money that month? It's kind of cumbersome to use those while you are working out. It just involves a lot of movement. I've found a similar problem when I rip pretty photos out of Nylon and Paper. People give me weird looks, even more weird looks than when my subscription postcards are blanketing the cardio area or when I whip out The Advocate's Summer Gay Sex Issue.

2. 20 Ways To Not Get Hot Absl: You aren't gonna do those exorcises you just read about in Shape. I mean, I rip them out too. I put them in my pocket, and I sometimes stick them in my planner and carry them around for a bit. Sometimes I even consider looking at them while actually at the gym. But then it's laundry time, and out they go. Usually they involve complicated things like neon balls and stretchy bands and stuff. Who's got time?

I should also mention I go to New York Sports Club and it sucks, but I will never quit, I will keep going there until I die. I'd recommend it to no-one, cuz it's crowded enough already and I don't want you there hogging the one functional stairmaster.

1. Don't Work Too Hard. If your target heart rate exceeds um, whatever is a high heart rate, then you probably aren't paying attention to that article you're reading about the secret heath risk that your doctor isn't telling you about! Slow down. Take some time to enjoy the view of your magazine and to check out your calves in the mirror.

"Running is for horses, not for people."
-my grandmother.

*This does not apply to the Anorexic Girl at the Gym, who climbs the Stairmaster for approx. 4 hours a day, clutching a sweaty copy of The New Yorker as if she plans on hand-delivering it to the Top ETs when she lands herself in the goddamn hospital.

Some Prep School Punk's Plan to Perpetuate Retribution

Today I want to talk about threats to the American people.

E.G., right now I WANT TO WATCH THE VIEW



But instead I have to watch this douchebag talk about NOTHING:



I wish Chuckie Cheese was president. Instead of money, we could have tickets. And instead of health insurance plans, we could have plastic mugs with broken handles and candy necklaces. And gumballs.



Did he really just say "No follow-up questions?" a.k.a., "Don't talk again, you'll call me out on not answering your question in the first place because I don't answer questions, I just like, say stuff."

Wow. "Dignity? What does that mean?"

I've got a follow-up question: "CAN I TAKE SOME TIME TO ENJOY THE VIEW?!!!"

Gawd. I hate that shrug-smirk thing he does, it makes me feel dirty. Literally. Like, dirty as if I was Valerie Malone in 90210 dropping off a paper bag of diapers at the house of the older man I was fucking.

Pleasent Valley Sunday

"What happens in Georgia, stays in Georgia."
-all Debutant-turned-punks and all other Polites-turned-Cynics

TOP TEN THINGS THAT STAY IN GEORGIA


10. Ridiculously temperate sunshiney days, riding bicycles with pedal breaks through aforementioned sunshine, feeling wind in one's sand-tossed hair, etc. Riding bicycles to ice cream stores that sell ice cream for $1.50 and sno-cones that taste like childhood. Fresh air. Trees.

9. The inability to communicate one's desire for mixed greens instead of French Fries; an all-too-familiar request to the waitstaff of various Manhattan eateries from the Casual Urban Neurotic (even the greasy diners, where those beautiful men in black aprons are disarmingly familiar with the nuances of steaming vs. grilling vs. broiling, and the art of serving sauce on the side), which resulted not once but twice with the conclusion "So you want a Ceaser salad, then?" "No, just mixed greens." "With Ceaser?" "No. Just greens. just lettuce." "You mean you want green eggs and ham?" "Yes, that."

8. At Fanny's, the beachside lesbian-owned eatery, Friday night's musical entertainment was fronted by a fat man with a guitar strap decorated with a pattern of Confederate flags. Lesbians with Janet Reno haircuts were more than happy to cheer and dance, Indy 500-style, for this Bluegrass performance. They also had a really cute waitress. Ow!

7. This same lesbian-owned eatery features a "Time to Eat Out" clock. Get it? More importantly...do the patrons?

6. People who say 'fixin' to' and tell me to have a "super day" when I buy a magazine. Really, I guess: Southern Hospitality, which is a jolt to my Well-Honed Northern Assholitosity.

5. Birds that chirp, audibly, and also fly from branch to branch.

4. A television set and an SUV that, if combined, would equal in square footage the approximate size of my room in NYC.

3. Pick ups like these two gems:

a) Three shirtless men in a car feel prompted to literally stop driving and send a representative to talk to "the prettiest girls we've seen all day" (obviously, me and Haviland, looking absolutely stunning in our swimsuits and un-made-up faces). He asked us 'what was goin' on' that night. The most remarkable part of this particular interaction was his tattoos, which included a marijuana leaf on his arm and a big ol' Jesus Christ on his chest.

b) A beachgoer passed our sunning spot to ask if we knew how to get water out of a lighter. We did not. He let us know, "I'll be back later to swim with y'all ladies." HOT.

2. Actual long walks on the beach, accompanied by actual stimulating conversation, tenderness, and heart.

1. Allegedly: eyeliner, lip gloss, hand lotion and concealer. JK! Try and stop me with your absurd color-coded warnings, you fascist bastards! Orange? Seriously? Are we seriously still using this? I've got a color code for ya: brownish black, which is my fave shade of CoverGirl eyeliner, and me going without it is a threat to My Security and to everyone who has to look at me. Take that, Al Queda! And um, the government! And the color ORANGE, which doesn't look good on anyone but is also the color of my hand lotion. You know, the lotion I rubbed on my hands in the air on the airplane.

I Have Spent Nights with Matches and Knives

I told Haviland she had to listen to my voice mail--Brian, a friend-of-a-friend who saw me read at "In the Flesh"--was running the tag sale for the recently deceased legendary dominatrix Eva Norvind/Ava Taurel and wanted me to come to Eva's dungeon that very night to compose a "fun" invite for the tag sale of her remaining possessions-- I believe his exact words involved: "We've got whips, we've got chains, we've got nipple clamps, strap-ons, handcuffs, shoes, magazines, videos, corsets, a flogging table, an hydraulic lift and DILDOS, DILDOS, DILDOS!!"

Haviland shot me a serious stare: "We're obviously going, right?"

Although I knew I should be packing (this was 1.5 weeks ago), I also knew that I should not turn down an opportunity to score some free handcuffs.

Haviland, because she's a Broadway actress, snagged me an invite to a cruise for gay families, during which she wore a pink Glenda gown and sang a song from "Wicked" for the delighted audience of tots and their doting parents.

Me, because I'm an aspiring freelance writer, took Haviland to a dungeon on 57th street and attempted to slap her unsuspecting ass with a leather whip, a bamboo cane and a flogging paddle.

Today, Susie Bright praises my snappy little invite.

I make exceptions to my Slacker-Blogging-Pace for shameless self promotion, obviously.

In other news, i think I just drank a whole cup of coffee with half-and-half that has totally gone sour.

Well, I'd like to visit the Moon, on a Rocketship High in the Air

So when you have a birthday in September (e.g., September 23rd, like ... surprise ... MEEE!) and you start a new school/school-housing-situation almost every year and when also even after college you like to pretend that September remains the ideal month for Reinvention/Life Makeovers, you end up having totally Random Birthday celebrations/celebrants. If I was in Michigan, I'd obviously be going to the Macaroni Grill with 20 of my (then) closest friends for free** house wine.

**It's not actually "free," really, unless you have shady ethics and no qualms with what could technically be categorized as "stealing." But I worked there for like, a million years, and servers only get paid 2.25 an hour so we gotta stick it to the man by having big dinners there with servers who ring up one glass instead of 100 glasses because the server would obviously be my friend too because, like I said, I worked there. P.S. it's Almaden. The stuff that comes in a box. So even "free" is more than anyone ought to pay for it.

Highlights of my Random Birthdays include an overnight trip to the booming tourist spot of Flint, Michigan (the hometown of Michael Moore, who documented Flint's utter despair in 'Roger and Me') in grade 5 (we had buffet dinner at our dilapidated hotel and went to the dilapidated children's museum and ate my favorite food, Astronaut Ice Cream) and a 10pm romp at Oasis Hot Tub Gardens in grade 15 (aka junior year of college) with a boy I stopped dating that same week.

I had this fabulous idea for a quarter-life crisis party where everyone dressed up as what they wanted to be when they grew up---obviously I would be Chris Weber, Ramona Quimby, Nolan Ryan or Shirley Temple, and all the guys would be like, basketball players and firemen and astronauts and the girls would be movie stars or like, pregnant fat ladies with expensive shoes or like, Cher, or whatever it is girls want to be when they grow up. Mostly I just want to see people dressed as astronauts and eat astronaut ice cream.

Then I realized it would only be cool if I had like, 1,000 friends, or could have a co-party with someone cooler than me, or if I was Paris Hilton. Bruce Springsteen and I have the same birthday so that's a possibility, esp. if someone dressed up as Bruce Springsteen. He might not like my theme but he also might totally be into it.

Speaking of September birthdays.....HAPPY BIRTHDAY INGRID GREENFIELD!!!!



some disclaimers have been added, post-initial-post, to the following dialogue:
Hav (who is 25-going-on-12, and very young, fabulous, thin and gorgeous, and, in fact, i'd like to add, looks about 19, though her maturity exceeds her tender years): is ingrid turning 25 or 26?
Me: 25, like me.
Hav: why are you guys so young? (by this she means that for our grade in school, Ingrid and I are very young. In fact we were the youngest members of our class for most of our lives)
Me: because we were child prodigies so we started kindergarten early.
(hav laughs)
Me: I'm serious!
I'd also like to add that all of Haviland's body parts are perky, firm, and full of youth and vigor.

Tuesday You See, She Had to be Free, but Somehow I've Got to Carry On

TOP TEN REASONS I DIDN'T DO A SUNDAY TOP TEN
(While we're on the topic of "things I didn't do," I'd also like to mention that I also did not write the 15 e-mails I owe various people that I love/want to love/gave birth to me, write a book proposal, return phone calls, be responsible, do laundry)


10.That Moving Thing. That No-Phone Thing. Followed by that Last-Minute-Decision-to-go-to-Nyack-Thing.



9. The Degrassi Every-Episode Marathon This weekend involved the moment I've been waiting two weeks/all my life for: Paige and Alex's lesbian love affair! Also it's pretty much the best show on television. I also enjoyed the 3,546 promo spots informing me that Shawn is coming back next season, which is awesome, 'cause he's smokin hot.


8. Sometimes we actually have the conversations you fantasize that we have.
The photograph below followed several glasses of wine, a breadbasket, assorted appetizers and the fruit I stole from the bar for Hav which the waiter informed me he did not "appreciate" (Yeah dude, DUH! Wanna know what I'd appreciate? The goddamn mixed greens I asked for or the bread you're clearly like, harvesting the grain for as we speak. Then I wouldn't have to be diggin' for orange slices like a soccer mom at halftime):

Topics of Discussion over aforementioned drink/snack/meal:
First Girl Crushed On
First Girl-Kiss
First Girl Fucked
Various drugs and their reported vs. actual effects on sexual activity
Why Lesbians do it in the Bathroom, and while we're on that topic, let's talk about all the times we've had sex in the bathroom.

7.This is what I'm dealing with, people.
This is a little photo collage of various messes from my room, circa ten minutes ago.


6."You Girls Look like Models!" "We are!"
Preparing for our future as Friends Forever with our own beautiful houses in the beautiful land outside of NYC who will be doing lots of photo shoots for Vanity Fair.


5. Turning boxes (most not so clearly labeled as this one) into a a bedroom.


4.Everyone in this place was eating lobster except these two monkeys.
A sunset, seafood, cabernet, and a discussion of things like how good it feels to be teased, tied up, spanked and burnt by talented lovers. See the photostrip I created with my superior photoshopping skills. We're just absurdly, ridiculously cool.

3. Shelter from the Storm?
There was a bit of a storm here on Saturday. I was moving/setting shit up, and, like most of my quests to "be budget," my hunt for plywood quickly resulted in a more expensive affair: paying two five-foot-tall men in raincoats to carry a boxspring and a bedframe (which I purchased while totally soaking wet all over everything) to my apartment and put it together. Outside, the tsunami raged and fresh undergrads in Harlumbia giggled and puddle hopped.

2. Cruisin' Together/The Waterfront Seating Hunt


1. I spent a shitload of time in line at Duane Reade, obviously. E.g. just now. I rewarded myself for the thirty-year wait with some Reese's Sticks, which were quite tasty and I enjoyed eating them as I was heckled on my way home in my SupaLova sweatpants (aka I bought them at Big Dee's on 14th street and cut them up).

This is Where I Long to be, La Isla Bonita

Here I am in my new apartment on Central Park West, enjoying a foot rub from my brilliant man-servant Toto and drinking a bottle of my favorite wine, Sutter Home White Zinfandel (I developed a taste for SHWZ during my week-long training at The Olive Garden in Times Square when I was 18, during which we spent the long leisurely afternoons doing food+wine pairing with various delicacies e.g., lasanga, and I would get super smashed), snorting a few lines of some premium cocaine while my other man-servants toss fine Californian grapes into my eager mouth from vantage points in my luxurious penthouse (like snipers, but with fruit not bullets). Though Bed, Bath and Beyond PROMISED my SHWZ-spouting fountain would be arriving today, it's not here!

PSYCH! or, as i spelled it when people still used that word: SIKE!!

I'm at Haviland's. After a delightful morning of packing and packing and sweeping and packing, we hiked up to my new place to find that my room was not only still occupied, but like--not even anywhere near the layer of reality we know as "about to start packing." It was more like "someone is actively living in this room with no intent to vacate any time in the near future." and also "this someone is Messy McMesserson."

So we put all my stuff in another room, and I guess I'll move in on Saturday when this girl will actually be gone.

LUCKILY one amazing thing happened which is that I found a mattress on craigslist and it was only like, two blocks away.

Then I left my cell phone at the apartment where I picked up the mattress (p.s. me and hav guessed she was a lesbian and she totally answered the door in an HRC shirt! HOLLA!). Which I can't get til Saturday....so basically um--

Hey check this out. right now i'm watching the MTV VMAs. yeah, that's right, i'm 14. i'm drinking Clearly Canadian and eating cheez-its, too.

So I wrote this essay to get my nerve internship 1.5 years ago called "Why Shane is the new Jordan Catalano." And right now, I MUST point out that um, apparently I am pretty much a um--seer? future-teller. Whatever, they are TWINS now! And my essay didn't even say they looked the same it was about their 'tudes. (that's cool-lingo for attitudes)

So anyhow. I have no phone and no apartment and still no boyfriend to carry heavy objects, even though I put out a call last week. But at least I have my dear friend Haviland. Who, I might add, actually helped me carry the mattress two blocks (by then the movers, who did everything while we did nothing, had already left), although she needed to stop for Gatorade and motivational encouragement like in the NY marathon. JK about the Gatorade, though I had some last night. It was FIERCE flavor, and I thought it might help my overall disposition.

But Some Sunday Morning, I'll Wake Up From a Dream, and Wonder if You Miss Me

On the 31st, as I discussed in my prior entry, I will be leaving the stylish armies of scrawny boys in skinny jeans & impossibly short and slim-legged girls with jet black hair and cherry-printed purses for the fine overflow of Columbia University we call Warlem, or Harlumbia (I'm coining a term here, like "fetch"). So today's Sunday Top Ten is split into two sections.

TOP FIVE THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT BILLYBURG

10. All those jokes I make about the hipsters? I kinda love the hipsters. I kinda sometimes am one, except less hip, more "ster." I kinda love their outfits. And feeling safely flanked on my way home from the L at 3am by people wearing boot-stocking-"skirt" combos so ugly that no one would even bother to mug us. Like Dorothy says about Jerry Maguire: "I love him. I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is." And now Jerry Maguire is like, crazy and knocked up Joey Potter. So there's that.

9. Spoonbill & Sugartown Bookstore. Is Heaven. The cute notebooks. The used books. The zines. The front table of unpredictable and delightfully hipster oriented literature. I cannot possibly love this place more than I already do. (photo courtesy of urban 75.)

8. One time at Wendy's in Ohio, my grandmother saw me talking to a boy (who was telling me I still had the tag on my overall-shorts, this was 1992, p.s.) and was like 'Do you like him? Do you like his lookin's?' Imagine this in a cute Ohio accent and then imagine this: I like Williamsburg's lookings. I love the buildings and the cute stores and this feels like New York to me. Yes. There you go. Make fun of me! I hope to move back here some day, and I'm sad to leave it. Seriously! (seriously, I was just serious!)

7. When I go to coffee shops in Manhattan, I start having heart palpitations and anxiety as I watch all the seats fill up while I wait for my NOT COMPLICATED iced coffee (I really do not understand why this isn't something they can't give you right away at Starbucks, why this is something that requires a Label and a Wait at the Bar with the Anorexic Woman asking "is this skim? are you sure this is skim?" (sub parentheses/confession: that woman is me, 'cept i'm not anorexic, just neurotic.) ) thinking "Oh my God, I'm gonna have this drink and then nowhere to sit, where will I pull out my laptop, I dont' want to share a table with the entire Sunday New York Times and that creepy dude hiding behind it, holy fuck, oh my godomigod i shoulda gone somewhere else but where?!" There have been times I can't find a seat at my Brooklyn coffee shop of choice, but usually I can find a seat. And be safely flanked by an army of matching MacBooks.

6. This:



TOP FIVE THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT BILLYBURG:

5. this conversation with a cab driver:

me: I'm going to Brooklyn, Williamsburg, ****** (sorry stalkers, gonna x this one out. and by stalkers I mean my mother, who thinks that if I put any information about myself on the internet I will get stalked, which is an ignorant and problematic theory on many levels), it's the second stop off the Williamsburg bridge?
cabbie: Um, ok, you want me to take the Ulysses S. Grant ExpressLaneWay (or whatever)?
me: I want you to go whatever's fastest.
cabbie: So um, you'll be able to direct me when we get there? I don't really know my way around brooklyn.
me (glaring at the 'taxi riders bill of rights, convieniently located at primo glare-height): Isn't that like, your job? To know your way around New York City?
cabbie: Well, I do, I just don't know Brooklyn.
me:(to myself) Um, that's a lot of shit not to know. Maybe you should get a job at Duane Reade, where you can not know where the band-aids are. Or better yet, go to pharmacy school, become a pharmacist at Duane Reade, and then not know where my prescription is!!!!!!

4. This conversation:
me:Well, you could come out here.
"friend": Ugh. but you live in Brooklyn.
me:It's actually really close, you lazy asshole. Just close your eyes and imagine that you're still in Manhattan, and it'll take you a lot less time to get here than it would to any of the Manhattan neighborhoods where our friends can actually afford to live.
"friend": Ugh. fine. is the L train running?
me: (shamed) No. But you can take the J-M-Z.
"friend": (as though I have just told the "friend" to get to Brooklyn on the back of a swimming sadistic diseased donkey) the WHAT???

3. C-Town. Why do I always live so close to a goddamn C-Town and nowhere near another grocery shopping option? (This happened in Sparlem, too.) I swear their tomatoes are dustier than the top of my dresser. A girl needs more than Guava Cola to power her aching burning desires. Also the walk from Tod's is too long. And Suamac is overpriced.

2.No Delivery.com. For a phone phobic such as myself, I can endorse the fine services of this revolutionary website with full confidence. First of all, they honestly do check the orders and deliver them, which I tested many times at work AND you don't end up screaming "rice on the side!" to someone asking you "pineapple surprise?" They didn't have a lot of delivery.com in east harlem either (besides this one crazy Japanese-Chinese restaurant that will go anywhere, probably even to Astoria or another far-away land), but Sparlem has claimed to be many things and "good place to find steamed veggies" or "good place to find a salad with very detailed instructions for preparation and assembly" is not one of them.

1. Seriously. What the Fuck are they doing to the L Train? It took like, three weeks to fix up those crazy hoes on The Swan with big tits and straight teeth and like, 50 years to figure out how to get a man on the moon but they still haven't "fixed" The L Train when the only thing that needs to be "fixed" about the L Train is that it's NEVER RUNNING.
This isn't a new joke. But, you know, it's true?

Some of Them Want To Use You, Some of Them Want To Get Used By You

The graphic on the left is a timeline of Boys who Have Helped Me Move. As you can see, I've usually had a boy around--be he a boyfriend or a "close friend with a large Jeep who happens to be unemployed and lives across the street" or a "Whatever"--to help me when I move, which happens about every two minutes. Cuz I'm a Ramblin' Man, I'm a Desperado, etc. Also yes I am aware that Tolliver (cited as 'Mover: Ypsitucky 02') only weighs 135 pounds, but the thing about it is that even 135-pound boys (he was 6'4, p.s., so just kinda simmer on that ratio for a while) have something to prove which is that their souls weigh a lot more than 135 pounds and that they are not Wusses. The past few months have been unusually--but intentionally--free of what the grownups call a "steady gentleman caller," and I admit that I have enjoyed a respite from such things as the irrational fear of pregnancy and the magical sensation a woman feels in the morning when the remains of her A.M romp tumble from her cervix as she walks to work. But uh, right now, I could kinda use even an "un-married ex who lives in the tri-state area" or a "good male friend who happens to be unemployed and drives a large Jeep" or really, I mean, probably I would settle for any good male friend who will not be working from 9-5 on the 31st of august. We're not talking like a Melrose Place move or something, this is serious, it's from Williamsburg to Warlem (that's my new word for West Harlem), so like, obviously this situation is problematic. And don't tell me to look on CL for movers. I know. I know all about craigslist and I know all about tree trunks with posters on them too. But they aren't FREE. Or at least, like "just buy me dinner" free. I know that um, as a feminist or whatever, I'm supposed to think that I need men like fish need bicycles, which is funny because I did actually sell my bicycle today which I obviously need less than a man, but I have heavy stuff and men are just stronger than women. That's just how it is. Also I think if I had a really hard core butch lesbian friend, that might be good. I was thinking about that girl at the Lesbo White Party during Pride who told us we were pretty and most lesbians looked like John Goodman. That's what I need. A John Goodman kinda lesbian. This graphical collage of fun contains the biceps of myself, Hav and Lainy. I think the photograph speaks for itself. And also, one time I did move by myself, without any boys or butch ladies. That was when I ended up with a flat tire at 3am on the side of the road with a dead cellphone somewhere in New Jersey and was rescued by a man in a white van (which everyone knows is the vehicle that serial killers use) who said he was an ambassador of Allah, which was awesome because he changed my tire and didn't kill me. But then he called my cell phone about 20 times to see if he could become my gentleman caller once I moved into my NYC apartment. (I tried giving him a fake number but he tested it while I was there so I had to pretend it was a mistake) It's possible that much of this post could be considered un-P.C., but that's fine because I saw this thing on VH1 about how P.C. is over. I am still a feminist and I believe in human rights, religious freedom, and um, equality. Yup. Also "being a spoiled co-dependent asshole" is also Over, and is now considered "being cool." Update: I've hired movers. Which means that these guys are going to move all my shit while Hav and I eat Tasti-D-Lite and watch DirectTV. Any other friends without office jobs are welcome to join the party. We'll be listening to 'S.O.S' and Dolly Parton.

The One Where I Try to Watch Television, Hate It, Miss Old School MTV

I don't think I've fully watched a television program since like, 1998 (because I have to always be doing at least three things at once, and TV is so passive it's basically only half a thing anyhow, like eating), but I'm still fairly selective about my background entertainment. Since we just got cable (and I've been without cable since like, January), I've been trying to develop my new Top 8. This is me watching TV. You can't see my computer, crossword puzzle, magazine or dinner, but um, you can see visual evidence of me wasting time by taking photos of myself and making them into a comic strip starring myself.

Sometimes I pick a Top 8 for a certain show: (e.g., 50% of TNT's programming blows, but the other 50% is Law and Order) or just a general faith in that channel's programming (e.g., Bravo, The N, Oh! (yeah really, seriously, I'm endorsing that channel and I'm not embarrassed about that, except I'm a little embarrassed about the exclamation point)). MTV used to be my #1--unless it was claymation wrestling, the chances were pretty high that they'd be showing something relatively awesome. But apparently I'm like, either a hundred years old, or MTV is dumb.

OK, so, um, I just did a blog search and discovered it's MTV's 25th anniversary. I can't believe that actually even matters. Who Cares? Guess who else is having a 25th anniversary this year and doesn't have any relationship to Ashley Parker Angel, whoever that is? Yeah, that's right: ME. The 25th anniversary of my birth. HOLLA!

Wasn't it their 25th anniversary last year or like, the year before that? MTV is an Anniversary Whore. They're that lame couple that "celebrates" every freakin' anniversary on earth: "It's our one-month!", "It's the anniversary of our first kiss!" "It's our two-point-five month anniversary!" "It's the anniversary of when I met his parents!" "It's the anniversary of the first time he busted a nut in my eye!" bla bla bla bla ...

So anyways, as I look back at the last 25 years of my life (cause my b-day's in one month, exactly!), this is what I miss the most:

Beavis and Butthead: Putting your t-shirt over your head and saying "I am Cornholio, I need TP for my Bunghole" is STILL FUNNY.


Loveline: This is where I gained 75% of my early sexual education (the remaining 25% was provided by Seventeen and Our Bodies, Ourselves). I also learned that most sexual hangups or bizarre fetishes are a result of childhood trauma. Like having a Super Sweet 16.

The Tom Green Show: Um, before that awful movie, this guy was really funny and also he tought me some really important comic skills, e.g. poking your friends in the face while they're trying to talk.

Undressed: When you're 16 and you have insomnia and it's summertime and you live in Michigan, there is no better way to spend every single night between midnight and 5AM than watching an Undressed marathon. It needs to be on DVD ASAP. Plus it's super duper gay. It was gay before the Gays Took Over America (ha!).


I guess people are really into that Laguna Beach nonsense, but the kind of convos they have on that show are the exact convos I hear from 17-year-old biznatches in skinny jeans at the Bloomingdales Train Station (aka 59th street) that I turn up my ipod to block out.


Singled Out:Before every dumb bitch on TV started acting like Jenny McCarthy, there was Jenny McCarthy.

-True Life: Before They Ran Out of Topics and started doing "True Life: I Have a House on the Jersey Shore"
How many times did you see that one with the two dumb blonde girls who kept getting plastic surgery and always ate a lot of Chinese food the night before they went to the surgeon? That was awesome.

Why is Cribs still on? Who cares what kind of palm trees Beverly Mitchell has at her tropical pool? I'll tell you who: morons.

We all know "The Real World: Gammorah," which replaced the original TRW in like, 1999 (the original which involved seven people living in a house and having Coversations about Issues and Personality Conflicts), is mostly just about Sucking Face. I can't even handle watching it. For the first 10 years or so, the people weren't that dumb, but now they are almost all dumb.

Speaking of the real real world....STEPHEN IS THE NUMBER ONE HOTTIE IN PUBLISHING! Thanks for your votes, kiddos.